Lists, by Neurosis
by schizometriclanguage
Summary: Wilson has some lists to run through in his head. Warning: Experimental pattern style.
1. Part 1 Neurosis by Sleep Deprivation

**Lists, Part 1 (Neurosis by Sleep Deprivation)**

Drips, thuds, noise, televisions, loud voices, grinding voices, one-sided conversations, loud music, incessant typing, tapping, saxophone, guitar, clashes, sex, arguments, divorce, sarcasm, quiet, children, coming, going, doors slamming, screaming, room service, maids...

Wilson sunk into the pillow. Tonight's selection: a couple of punks jumping on beds and screeching off their balcony. He wished that he could transpose some of their enthusiasm into himself as he covered his ears; useless. Earplugs helped, but only dulled the noise. He couldn't stand any of it. Couldn't stand the food, the bleached sheets, the intrusions, the disconnecting feeling, the sounds, the loneliness, the boredom, the frustration...

He massaged his temples and went in search of Advil, ibuprofen, or willow bark, whatever. Everything was running into each other. The lists, the litanies, the complaints, and the self critical verbiage; all wouldn't stop, wouldn't clear...

His concentration was waning.

Monotone.

Monochrome.

Mono; one.

One; alone.

He wouldn't touch the sleeping pills. He didn't trust them. And it would be too easy, wouldn't it? It was too similar, too much of a reminder, too much like House, numbing yourself because you start to feel. He was already numb, all he would succeed in doing is becoming unconscious, and that was more frightening. When would this cycle of thoughts end? How long had he been awake?

_Call House,_ he was urged by a demanding voice. Three in the morning; hard to say if House would be awake, he countered. He was conflicting with himself again, he absently noticed. This was getting out of hand. But he was good at doing the automatic if it only involved himself; no one noticed this plummeting moral. Did House notice? How could he? He was busy faking brain cancer.

That incident had been the only emergence from his own suppressed and ignored thoughts, emotions, mannerisms, idiosyncrasies...He'd at least felt something, and even though it was disgust, disbelief, relief, anger, utter bafflement; he'd been thankful to feel it.

Wake up, wake up.

He lifted the receiver, dialled House's number. How many times had House woken him up at obscene hours? It was time to return the favour. He waited, the ringing on the other end grinding at his temples.

"What?" House barked, clearly having just woken up. Wilson froze. What did he call for? No words came to mind. House's anger didn't sting.

"Who the hell is this?"

Still feeling no sting, phone clicking onto receiver, dial tone, fingers dialling the familiar number again; no answer. He's probably pulled the cord clean out of the wall. Wilson wished that he wouldn't do that and considered calling House's cell but halfway through dialling decided that seeing as he still had a key, he'd appear, intrude, invade...leave this place. He couldn't comprehend a reason for coming over so late to offer to House when he got there. Maybe he didn't need one.

He'd never been more comfortable on the couch. Smells like House, smells like leather, smells like alcohol on the table, smells hospitable; feels like home, feels like it's proper, feels like how it's supposed to; sounds like the breathing of another person. The lists died quickly. The sleep came once they were silenced.


	2. Part 2 Neurosis by Desire

**Lists, Part 2 (Neurosis by Desire)**

Television luminosity, muted chatter, toned down chatter, laughing, sitcoms, dramas, soaps (almost over, thank god), Steve McQueen, home cooked meals, dishes, piano...desire, close, warm, "accidental" brushing against, down the hall, couch, pretending to sleep, watching him pretend to sleep, watching him sleep, moving to be near...

It'd been three weeks since he'd moved back in with House. Normal functions and senses restored and stress level reduced to below alarming neurotic levels, Wilson found himself thinking of other things. Like how satisfactory it would be to sleep with House, or how comforting it would be to lie against him while they watched television. The naughty things and the tender things, both were invading the time he was around House. Every time House came close he tensed, stopped breathing, became paralyzed, flushed...

He excused himself to get a glass of water, or alcohol, cough syrup, whatever came to hand. It didn't matter which, he just needed to get away from House. The lechery, the appetite, the dreams, and the facade of normality; this wasn't going to stop, wasn't a phase...

His obsession wasn't leaving.

Duotone.

Duplicity.

Duo; two.

Two; together?

He wouldn't talk about it. If he did, it wouldn't come out properly. And it would be too devastating to their platonic relationship. It would feel too awkward, too easy to fail at, too much of a temptation of fate for everything to fall apart. If he said anything, things would never be the same even if House had suspected, even if things went well, things wouldn't last. When would this fixation end? How long had he let it go on?

_Do something,_ he was urged desperately by a voice interested only in gratification. He swigged the bottle of warm whisky from the counter and shut his eyes at the assailant taste. Avoiding this again, he noted. It wouldn't do any good to pair off, given their histories at relationships. Had House thought about this? Had it even crossed his mind? Wilson was sure it had, but knew that House was too engulfed in his own pains to think about it enough to lead to anything.

This problem of his was something that had been accumulating for years, it'd been there from the start, directed his actions, mannerisms, idiosyncrasies...he'd always felt something and it'd always been what life was, the ups and downs, the confusion, the frustration, the indulgence, the comfort, the moments in-between, the silent communications; he'd been thankful for the reminder that he was alive.

Act now, act now.

This was unbearable, living here like this. How many times had he come close to doing something rash? Maybe it was time to just get it over and done with. He thought on it a moment, the silence in the air berating him with demands.

"Going to bed," House said plainly, shooting down whatever monologue that had begun to well up in his mind. Wilson's voice was rendered unusable and nodded, though House couldn't see. He scoffed softly. What was he going to say? The words that he'd just passed consideration over already sounded flat and insincere. House's intentional ignoring of his state suddenly felt inexcusable.

"Don't wake me up in the morning."

Wilson hummed a confirmation, still not trusting the words he might say to make sense, moved back to the couch, flicked off the television, laid out; all routine. He'd have to move out again before this all drove him to something rash. He wished that he believed himself when he made plans to find his own place as he lay on the couch at night. It was impossible to believe when it was such an enticing idea to follow House, go into his room, join him, feel his warmth, and know the closeness...love the intimacy. But he couldn't bring himself to jeopardize things. But then, maybe he wouldn't be.

He sat up, caught in indecision. He wished he could be more like House sometimes, more daring, less concerned of consequences; a more formidable person, more comfortable with self, feeling whole; a more involved quality of life. Any boldness died quickly. Once pessimism silenced fantasy, sleep followed.


	3. Part 3 Neurosis by Conflict

**Lists, Part 3 (Neurosis by Conflict)**

Snapping comments, irritability, accusations, evenings with Cuddy, overnight stays in hotels, anxiety, tense quiet, distance, avoidance, channel changing, loud music, near shouting, cooking meals, too much Vicodin, cleaning, unappreciated, long walks, fitful sleep...

Despite all the brimming conflict, Wilson still didn't want to leave. After three months, he still hadn't said anything, which served as a fount of frustration that House had an innate ability to act as a catalyst too. He was beginning to think that he should move out just so that they could avoid killing each other. House still refused to do the simple domestic things which was to be expected, but would have been forgiven if there was something more there then simply living together. But every time he thought about leaving, something stopped him, persuaded him to stay, convinced him that this was better, and insisted that he was appreciated...

He was avoiding House right now, more or less hiding in the clinic, or with Cuddy, or tending to his patients more then they needed to be, whatever was convenient. This was getting ridiculous, the ways they were avoiding each other because they knew they'd see each other later, knowing that something wasn't being said, that there was plenty of time for quips, banter, rows; repetition that they both abhorred, conflicts that they knew how to stop, recognition of what stopping could disassemble...

His constant exasperation with those three problems and House was tiring.

Trilateral.

Trinitrotoluene.

Tri; three.

Three; conflict.

He couldn't stand to live like this much longer. House probably knew that too. This is what occupied House, he was another case study. He was measuring where the breaking points would be, observing behaviour, waiting for the breaking point to shatter with veiled behaviour. How he would react, how House would judge it, where it would leave them, all these factors that would bring an ending if he confronted him. When would confront him? Would he ever?

_Take a chance,_ his own advice echoed back to him. He stood up from his desk, dropping the pen overtop a stack of forms and waivers. This had gone on to long, he decided. He was sick of it. Was House? Did he really care what House thought at this point? All this overanalyzing had burdened him unnecessarily.

House was going to react how he always did, the way he knew, the way he always would with the same mannerisms, idiosyncrasies...but this time he might feel different, maybe re-evaluate, mock him, consider him, reject or accept, acknowledge; Wilson was sure that he would be thankful even if all this did was put it out in the open.

Settle this, settle this.

House was in his office, occupying himself with a game of improvised lacrosse. How long had it been since he'd played? Stop procrastinating, Wilson demanded his attention. House didn't stop, the ball hitting against the wall in a steady rhythm.

"What?" House asked, still focusing on catching and tossing the ball. Wilson exhaled. House's apathy didn't bother him.

"Well?"

Wilson took several hesitant steps towards House, restricted only by reservations for the future, his steps gained strength, resolution solidifying, stopping just over House; all or nothing. This was rash, but what he'd wished for. This was impromptu, it wasn't planned. It was exhilarating to feel House's unshaven jaw with his hand, to lightly kiss his lips, feel him, and smother callous words...make his position known. He didn't need to say anything. He couldn't think of anything anyways.

He straightened and felt a crooked grin spread across his face. He'd done it, and it hadn't been nearly as fatalistic as he had imagined, nor as denounced, or explosive; House behaved just as he should, watching, evaluating, deciding; true to his character. Any trepidation he had died quickly. Once House decided, the pessimism was silenced.


End file.
